If I Could Be Where You Are
by Linwe Elendil
Summary: Things don't go according to plan when Harry tries to kill Voldemort. Can he live with the consequences? Songfic. Character death.


Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. But I've pre-ordered the last book!

This is one of the saddest things I have ever written! I was listening to the theme from Schindler's List while writing this, and I have to say that Itzahak Perlman's playing reduced me to tears! I could barely get this out… The story is really set to Enya's "If I Could Be Where You Are".

WARNING: Character death.

* * *

_Where are you this morning?_

_Only in my dreams._

_You're missing, but you're always_

_A heartbeat from me._

Harry wandered through the graveyard, waiting for Tom Riddle. All the horcruxes had been destroyed, and it was time to finish things; to seal his fate. As he walked among the tombstones, Harry found himself thinking about Ginny – where she was, if she was thinking about him. He shook his head, and forced himself to focus. It wouldn't do Ginny any good if Voldemort crept up from behind and killed him while he was daydreaming. She was the reason Harry was going through with this. He wanted to make the world safe for her to live in.

But what Harry didn't know was that he had been followed – and in five minutes, it would all be over.

_I've lost my way without you._

_I don't know where you are._

_I keep watching, I keep hoping._

_But time keeps us apart._

Harry's 17th birthday passed unceremoniously as he lay in St. Mungo's. Having requested a private room, and refusing all visitors, he merely stared at the ceiling and waited for it to be over. People had been sending gifts all day, but he didn't want them. Word had spread that Voldemort was dead, and all due again to the miraculous Harry Potter. Flowers, candy, balloons, even anonymous howlers – sent no doubt by Death Eaters – had shown up in rapid succession, but Harry would accept none of them.

The nurses, unwilling to throw the gifts away, had begun a pile in the corridor. The howlers were taken to a sound-proof room nearby, and they usually made it in before exploding. Harry would glance out the door each time a nurse came to check on him, unwillingly curious about the growing stash. He could see now why Dumbledore had wanted him to grow up away from the wizarding world. He would have been followed everywhere, and easily singled out as a helpless target for those who sought his demise.

But his real motive for not wanting any attention was the plain and simple fact that he had not killed Voldemort. Ginny had sacrificed her life to protect him in an agonizing reproduction of his mother's death. And even after all she did, her name would not be remembered. Harry had be termed "the boy who lived," as his parents were forgotten – and he couldn't bear the thought that the same thing would happen to Ginny. It wasn't fair to her memory.

_Is there a way I can find you?_

_Is there a sign I should know?_

_Is there a road I could follow,_

_To bring you back home?_

Harry began to cry again as memories of her swept over him: the first time he had kissed her – that fierce look she had, fresh from a triumphal quidditch match – to the night when he watched her sacrifice herself. That last thing he had seen was her face; content, peaceful, eyes closed in death. So unlike Cedric, whose shock had been frozen on his features. Ginny knew what she was walking into, and she had done it willingly. Voldemort had not known – had no way of knowing – that Ginny had loved him. He had merely laughed at Harry's grief and sent another jet of green light toward the boy-hero. Yet again, his killing curse rebounded on himself – but without his horcruxes, Tom Riddle had been destroyed. All because of Ginny…

Harry chocked back a sob as his door swung open. A nurse was here to remove the bandages at last. He wiped his eyes with his blanket as she approached. When the curse rebounded, Harry had felt his scar burst open again, and passed out from the pain. He had woken up in St. Mungo's, with his forehead bandaged. He could only wonder what kind of mark he would be left with now.

"Alright, dearie," the nurse said, her voice soothing and gentle. Harry knew he should have felt calmed by it, but his heart had been dulled, and would not sway so easily now. He dutifully lifted his head as she began to unwrap the white cloth. She laid it aside, and stood back. Harry tried to read her expression, but wasn't sure what her squinted eyes and pursed lips were supposed to convey. So he asked her for a mirror.

She silently handed one to him, and he took a deep breath before raising it up to look at his forehead. There was nothing there. His old scar was gone, and there was no mark of his latest escape from death.

He lowered the looking glass, and mumbled his thanks as he turned away from the nurse. He heard her footsteps recede, and he began to cry in earnest. All he had ever wanted was a normal life, but his scar had become a mark of his fame. Now that it was gone, Harry felt a sense of relief. The lifting of a burden he didn't realize had been so heavy. He might finally have a chance at the life he had always wanted, but now he would have to spend it alone.

_Winter lies before me._

_Now you're so far away._

_In the darkness of my dreaming_

_The light home you will stay._

When he was declared fit to be released a few days later, Harry found himself with a new problem. He didn't know where to go. Now that Voldemort was gone, he needn't stay with his abusive relative, and being of age, could easily live on his own. As Harry could not bring himself to face the Wesley's, he made Grimauld place his permanent residence.

There wasn't much left except the heavier furnishings, but he didn't care. He sat in one of the upstairs rooms; the one _she_ had shared with Hermione two years ago. Harry was laying down on her bed, with his back to the window, when the visitor arrived. One glimpse of red hair was enough to make Harry turn and face the sunlight, trying in vain to conceal his tears.

A hand touched his should, but he refused to look up.

"Hey – " Ron began, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You alright?" Harry remained silent, and Ron continued. "We've been worried about you, mate." Still nothing. "Mum wanted me to ask if you've been eating."

Harry's mind dully tried to recall, but he wasn't even sure how long he'd been in the room. It felt like years.

His best friend tried again. "Did you have breakfast this morning?"

"I dunno," Harry finally muttered.

"How long have you been here?" A slight shrug was Harry's only answer.

"C'mon, Harry. Let's go downstairs and get you something to eat." He nudged his friend into sitting up, and a slight push got him to his feet. Harry stared at the ground as he numbly placed one foot in front of the other, and they descended the stairs. Finally, with just three steps left, Harry raised his eyes.

He froze. A small crowd had gathered on the first floor, and was staring up at him. Almost the entire Weasley family – only Ginny was missing, he realized with a pang – Hermione, Lupin, Tonks, Fleur, and Moody were there waiting for him. He wanted to run from them, from his grief, and from the lump that was swelling in his throat again. Hermione reached out and grasped his hand, however, making escape impossible. She pulled him down the rest of the way and folded her arms around him. Mrs. Weasley hugged the pair, and Harry began to sob – the women's combined strength holding him up despite his shaking.

They began to stroke his hair, and he started to calm. Not a word was spoken as Mrs. Weasley gently ushered him into the kitchen. Harry stared in amazement at the piles of food spread out on the table.

"It's what was left over," Mrs. Weasley mumbled, "from the funeral."

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

_If I could be close beside you._

_If I could be where you are._

_If I could reach out and touch you,_

_And bring you back home._

Even after the large lunch that Mrs. Weasley had dutifully watched him eat, Harry was too weak to apparate, and was led without protest to the car. He did not know where they were going, and he really didn't care. The fog in his mind was pierced by the rays of the sun, and he hated it for still being able to shine.

_Is there a way I can find you?_

_Is there a sign I should know?_

_Is there a road I can follow?_

_To bring you back home…_

Harry reverently placed a red rose on Ginny's grave, a tear spilling from his eye.

_To me._

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